


Sunday Dinner at Corvo Bianco

by Superstition_hockey



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, F/M, Family, Gen, Horses, Mentioned Roach (The Witcher), Multi, Polyamory, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Retirement, Toussaint (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23148145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: Morvran and Ciri visit for family dinner.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Morvran Voorhis, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 26
Kudos: 188





	Sunday Dinner at Corvo Bianco

**Author's Note:**

> This is fluffy drivel, dreamed up after spending too much time in Blood and Wine spent arranging paintings in Corvo Bianco

The idea to go to Toussaint is originally Morvran’s. His wife is adapting impressively to the heavy weight of the crown, but he can tell that, sometimes, the long days of displomatic missives, meetings, and banquets, the endless parade of responsibilities wears on her, and makes the memories of her prior life, the sweet freedom of nothing but a sword at your back and a horizon in front of you, seem even sweeter. And while all paths in life have their monotonies, the tedium of a muddy road in the cold rain, a hungry belly and lice in an inn seem far away, and like they could not have been so very terrible, when it is a warm day in early summer, the birds are chirping, and her imperial majesty is trapped in an over-warm room listening to the droning recitals of grain prices. He’s sympathetic, he feels the chafe himself after years at war, on the battlefield, with his own soldiers and far from the formalities of the capitol city. But he is more used to bearing it, he was raised to it, and his wife was not. 

When she snaps at him for the third time during their quiet private luncheon in the garden, Morvran puts his fork down and says, “Cirilla, my darling, perhaps we should go see your father.” 

Cirilla drags her eyes up from the stack of imperial reports she’s reviewing, her meal barely touched. “I can’t go running to my father everytime the trade corporations try to get one over on me. I’m--”

“Cirilla. Forgive me for interrupting you, but I do not refer to his Imperial Majesty Emhyr. By some miracle your father has left his throne to you and gone to his retirement. I would not, under pain of torture, give him even the slimmest hint he might need to put down his books and his rose gardens or whatever he has found to divert himself, and come take the reins of power again. I meant your other father.” When she has no response but to stare at him, shocked, he adds, “Sir Geralt. The Witcher.”

She scrunches her brows together. “Obviously. I haven’t got _that_ many fathers. But… Geralt...”

Morvran takes a sip of his wine. “He resides in Toussaint now, does he not? Toussaint is quite lovely this time of year.” 

Cirilla swallows carefully. “Yes. That’s what Yen says. That they’re in Toussaint. Do you really think…”

“Is there some prohibition of which I was not aware, preventing you from his presence? Did you quarrel or leave on bad terms?”

“No, of course not. But I can’t…”

“Cirilla. You are the Empress of Nilfgaard. There is very little you cannot do. You can certainly visit one man who raised you and cared for you when you were a child. And you can certainly make a visit to one of your duchies without the Empire fainting in shock. It is not as if he lives in a hut somewhere in the Dragon Mountains.” 

There is a spark of something, suddenly, in her eyes he has not seen for weeks. Months even. An impish gleam in her eye that delighted him when they were first married, and that had been weighed down, at recent, with a look of seriousness. “It would not be a difficult thing to arrange, a little planning, perhaps, around your calendar but---”

He’s interrupted by his wife’s ringing for her chamberlain. A few quick orders to rearrange their calendars for the rest of the day, that they will be indisposed until noon tomorrow. “Cirilla,” he smiles and squeezes her hand again, “I understand your eagerness to see your family, but it will take weeks--” 

And then she squeezes his hand back, and the world shifts around them, and when he opens his eyes, they are in Toussaint. 

Specifically, they are on a dirt road standing in front of a low fence, fields of grapevines, the golden midday sun of Toussaint heavy all around them. A bee buzzes at his elbow. A murmur of voices in the fields, chatter while working. A bird trills from the top of an olive tree. He blinks. 

“We are in Toussaint.”

Ciri grins at him, big and bright, eyes quicksilver. It is easy, sometimes, to forget that the title Lady of Time and Space is no affectation. “We’re in Toussaint.” She lifts up the hem of her skirt off the ground, kicks off her slippers. “Come on!” she cries. “Last one up the hill is a rotten egg!” and sets off running. 

Sir Geralt is in the courtyard, hefting a barrel into a wagon, when Ciri bursts into it at a dead run. He gets only a warning of “Geralt!” and then she is crashing into him.

“Ciri???” he laughs and Morvran watches as the witcher’s arms close around her tight, as he swings her around. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” she says, and hugs him tighter. “It’s fine. I just… missed you, and Morvran suggested...”

For the first time, Geralt looks up and notices him. “Morvran.” He nods over her shoulder. Geralt never stood on ceremony when Morvran was a general; it is not surprising that he has no room for it now, either, when Morvran is Emperor. The witcher lets Ciri go and steps forward, hand out, and Morvran cannot remember the last time someone _shook his hand_. Well, perhaps he can remember, since it is a thing that hasn’t happened since he was crowned. He grasps Geralt’s hand firmly and Geralt pulls him into it, arm coming around to grasp his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Geralt says softly. “Thank you for bringing her.” 

“Of course.” 

The witcher looks much as he did last time Morvran saw him, in Novigrad. His retirement does not appear to have softened him overmuch. But he is, for the first time Morvran has seen him, unarmed. No swords on his back. And dressed only in canvas trousers, sturdy boots, and a once-white linen shirt, damp with sweat. He sees Geralt’s eyes flicker over Cirilla. 

“Ciri,” the witcher says, “your dress is already covered in dust. You can borrow something of Yen’s while you’re here. Are you two staying for dinner?”

“I think we can stay until after breakfast tomorrow if you’ve room for us,” Ciri answers as she walks with him toward the house. “Where is Yen?”

Geralt snorts. “In Beauclair, seeing Annarietta. She said no more politics, but obviously that didn’t last very long. God knows what they’re up to. I try not to ask.” He wipes some of the sweat from his face with his shirt, and holds the door for them. “I’m helping Jean-Philippe with the barrels all day, and you know Dandelion’s opinions about physical labor, so he suddenly decided he was needed in Beauclair too. They’ll be back before dinner probably. BB! Two more for supper tonight, we’ve got guests.” 

“Of course, I’ll--” Geralt’s majordomo stops dead in his steps and then sinks in to a low bow. “Your majesties.” 

Geralt kicks off his boots. “BB. This is my daughter, Ciri, and her husband, Morvran. Don’t get all crazy with the formalities. Normal Sunday dinner’s just fine. Nothing wrong with Marlene’s roast. Ciri, Morvran, this is my majordomo, Barnabas-Basil, the reason we have a functioning vineyard.” 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Morvran greets him. 

Before Barnabas-Basil can respond further, Geralt points to a door. “Ciri, my room’s just there, if you want to raid Yen’s closet. Morvran, you’re about the same size as Eskel, if you want something you don’t mind getting dusty if we go for a ride later.” 

A little while later, when Morvran’s state robes are laid out on the guest bed and he’s tugging on a borrowed pair of boots, Cirilla dressed in a loose black shirt and black trousers, he’s surprised when she leans over and kisses him. Not a quiet peck on the cheek, but a kiss, heady and fully. 

“Thank you,” she says, against his mouth. “For thinking of this.” He kisses her back, fingers curling around her hips, but she pulls away, mischievous light in her eye, and slips out of his grasps, turning for the door. “Let’s go, I want to see the gardens!”

What follows seems a halcyon afternoon, the sort of day Morvran can scarcely number in his life. They walk the fields with Geralt, who shows them with pride his thriving grape vines, the herb gardens, the cellars, his apothecary table, and even the stables. They wander through the herb gardens, and walk along the stream. They sit on a hill to watch lambs bounce around each other. Ciri makes flower crowns of celandine flowers, puts them on Geralt’s head and the witcher just snorts and pretends not to smile, but doesn’t remove it. 

As the afternoon sun lengthens, and the shadows stretch, Barnabas-Basil brings them wine, and oil and bread, olives and cheese to eat outside after their walks in the sun. Geralt opens the bottle of light summer wine, and fills their cups. Ciri takes long drinks from her cup, licks her fingers like she would never do at court, and laughs with her shoulders and belly. Geralt cuts an apple into pieces with his boot knife and hands them both slices, tells stories about Zoltan and Eskel until Morvran is remembering how to laugh like that as well. 

“We aren’t putting Dandelion out of a room, are we?” Ciri asks, suddenly. “I didn’t see a second guest bedroom.” 

It could be the wine, or the late afternoon sun, but it looks almost like Geralt’s ears go a little pink. “No, he’s not in the guest room.” 

“But Yen is…”

“No one’s in the guest room, Ciri.” 

“Oh.” She takes another deep sip of her wine. _”Oh”_.

Geralt snorts, and then suddenly Ciri leans over and nudges his shoulder. “I’m _glad_ ” she says, “I’m glad. I’m glad you’ve sorted it all out.” 

And then there’s a fuzzing crackle of a portal, and Yennefer and Dandelion -- the Viscount Julian -- Morvran’s head thinks and then immediately forgets in a round of hugs and introductions. 

Morvran suspects they are taking their dinner a little later than many informal family dinners are normally served to give Geralt’s household time to settle themselves at the arrival of royal guests, but there is wine, and an abundance of finger food on the table, and gwent, and his wife laughing with Yennefer and the Viscount. 

Geralt stands and stretches and looks at Morvran. “Got time to come to the stables before dinner? Wanna show you something.”

“Of course,” Morvran agrees, “your majordomo mentioned that you were expanding your stables. I am eager to see.” 

The stables are expanded larger than Morvran thought in their first tour through the estate, and there’s a particularly fine bay filly that snorts as they step into the stables and Geralt nears her stall. “Come on,” Geralt urges him past the filly, and his own dark mare that Morvran recognizes from Novigrad -- Roach. It’s a yearling that Geralt shows him, black as night, and stomping in his stall, tossing his head as Morvran approaches.

“What a magnificent beast.” Morvran reaches out a cautious hand to pet the yearling’s nose. “Where did you get him?” 

Geralt huffs. “Roach.” He smiles a little, produces another apple from his pockets somewhere and holds it out the yearling. “Eskel’s taken to wintering here now that Kaer Morhen’s all closed up. His Scorpion and Roach got cozy a couple of winters ago.” 

Morvran hums. “I have not met this witcher, but if he is as good a judge of horses as you, Scorpion must be quite a stallion. Have you any sense yet, how fast this one will be? It’s early still.” 

Geralt shrugs. “It is early, but… fast. I’ve seen him run in the fields and… fast.”

“You will have to keep me updated.” 

Geralt hesitates for a second and then says, “Actually, you might need to keep me updated. I had been thinking. I was going to. Ciri’s birthday is coming up. I thought she’d… Do you think she’d like him?” 

Morvran squeezes Geralt’s shoulder. “She would love nothing more than a gift from her father.”

Geralt’s jaw tightens, and he nods, eyes never leaving the horse. When he finally speaks his voice is a little rough, “She even get a chance to ride, cooped up in the castle in Nilfgaard all day?”

Morvran thinks carefully. “There was a great deal of work to be done when Cirilla returned. To make the transition of power smooth, and then to cement her seat on the throne. Neither one of us has made much room for … hobbies in the past year. But this afternoon has been a very good reminder of how important those things are. How important it is to laugh, to see family. That every moment cannot just be duty. Give her the gift, Geralt, and I promise you, I will make sure she has time to ride.” 

Geralt nodded and then there was a voice from the door of the barn, Ciri’s come looking for them, and they hurry to meet her outside. 

Dinner is long, and they linger over the table, and then later linger in the chairs on the patio out beneath the stars. Seating is in short supply but Her Imperial Majesty makes use of Morvran as a chair, laying her head against his shoulder and wiggling her toes against his borrowed trousers. Morvran sighs, and kisses her hair, arm wrapping around her. Across the tables, beneath the starlight, Dandelion heaves a dramatic sigh from where he lies with his feet in Geralt’s lap and his head in Yennefer’s. 

“Ciri, my lion cub,” the poet said, “will you play gwent with me? Yen always cheats and Geralt always wins. And BB won’t play with me anymore because he said _I_ cheat.”

“Dandelion,” Ciri laughs, “you’re the one that taught _me_ to cheat at cards.”

Much later, when he tips his sleepy wife into the bed upstairs, and slides under the covers next to her, Ciri rolls to face him. She smiles and kisses his nose. “This was a good day,” she breathes. 

“It was.” 

“Do you think, if we shuffle some appointments in our calendars, we could maybe do this more often?”

Morvran thinks about Cirilla in trousers and bare feet, laughing and throwing stones into the stream behind the villa. Of the miracle of a witcher, sleeping in his own house, surrounded by his family. Of the miracle he never expected -- not just the crown, but a wife who he loved to hear laugh. 

“I would like that very much, my love,” he says and kisses her back.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dangercupcake for fixing my commas and tenses and listening to all my rambling about Blood and Wine


End file.
